


Close At Hand

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftercare, Blindfolds, Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Eames,” Arthur murmured, sounding amused and intrigued, “are you ticklish?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close At Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) Round 5 for the square _tickling_. Thanks to [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/), [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asunder), and Liz for reading this over!

Arthur was saying something to the extractor as he bent to take out Eames’ line, fingers of his other hand curving around Eames’ upper arm, touching the crook of his elbow. Eames’ fingers uncurled in surprise at the immediate sensitization of the tender skin there, and he froze in the act of shifting in his chair. Arthur cut a glance at him; of course he would be attuned to Eames. Even if they hadn’t been sleeping together, Arthur probably would have noticed; he had an eye for details, and wasn’t that an understatement.

Arthur paused, shielding him from the view of the rest of the team (who were, by the sounds of it, otherwise engaged anyway), his brow furrowed in interest as he stroked the tip of his index finger over the crook of Eames’ elbow again, soft and deliberate. Eames, watching, inhaled, and felt his skin heat.

“Eames,” Arthur murmured, sounding amused and intrigued, “are you ticklish?”

“I suppose I am,” Eames muttered, turning his head to look across the room.

Arthur chuckled softly, stroking a few fingers at once over the spot again and drawing a surprised gasp from Eames before he stood and walked over to where the rest of the team were congregated, giving Eames times to compose himself and stand. It didn’t take him long, although he was mildly irritated by the way Arthur knew he’d need a moment, damn him.

Later, as they left the job site, Arthur remarked quietly as he followed Eames out, as if to himself, “I can’t believe I didn’t already know that.”

\-------

Predictably, that night after drinks at some dark, nondescript bar like so many others, they ended up in Arthur’s room, slightly clumsy in their inebriation and eagerness, but no less determined for all the difficulty they had getting each other’s clothes off. Arthur, laughing and pink-faced and in his underthings, straddled him on the floor, running his hands up Eames’ sides, beneath his undershirt, nimble and quick. Eames yelped, realizing he should have expected this. He was trained in close combat, for god’s sake. Although, in fairness, he hadn’t been trained to deal with half-naked tickling. Perhaps a suggestion for his COs, that is, assuming he’d ever see them again, which was unlikely.

He jerked, but Arthur kept at it, going for his armpits, causing Eames to lock his arms to his sides, arms bent in preparation to shove Arthur off, but Arthur instead worked his fingers into the crooks of Eames’ elbows. Eames wrested himself over onto his side, and Arthur stroked a fingertip down the nape of his neck. Eames shuddered bodily, going limp for a moment. “Arthur, you absolute... bloody.... You.” He huffed, barely keeping himself from faceplanting into the carpet.

Arthur sat on him, victorious, taking hold of Eames’ arm when he stretched it out in an attempt to defend himself, attacking his armpit again with those damned long, strong fingers. Eames curled up and made ridiculous noises, helpless sounds akin to laughter and really it was funny, but he was also very aware of how very hard and throbbing he was, and when he turned onto his back again Arthur was made aware of it as well.

“Where else?” Arthur said, fascinated, eager, voice a little husky. Without waiting for an answer, he skittered his fingertips over Eames’ stomach under his shirt, making the muscles there jump. “Behind your knees?” Arthur shifted back and reached for Eames’ leg with one hand (damn his flexibility) and got the crook of his knee, and Eames quivered, barking out a little sound.

Arthur turned fully to him, eyes bright with an idea, oh god, and got up, surprisingly adept, helping Eames to his feet and then tugging off his undershirt. As he stripped off his own, he said to Eames, “Get the rope from my bag.”

“Arthur.” Eames’ heart kicked into a rapid beat.

“Eames.” Arthur stood before him, hands on his hips, expression patient and slightly smug.

With a sigh, Eames turned toward where Arthur had stashed his things, and knelt to dig through his pockets. “Bringing bloody rope with you everywhere,” he muttered, taking the cord of silky white rope to Arthur, who had removed his socks and was now only in his boxers.

Arthur took the rope, tossed it to the bed, and tipped up Eames’ chin, making Eames look at him, meeting him head on. “Hey,” he said, low, gentle. “If this isn’t something you want, I won’t do it, you know that.”

Eames nodded, looking down, feeling his skin flush hot. Arthur knew damned well that he wanted it, but Arthur was a big believer in honest communication and clear boundaries and other such tiresome rubbish.

Arthur leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet and still a little bit drunk, and he didn’t tickle Eames this time, just rested his fingers and broad palms on Eames’ bare back. Arthur hummed, a habit of his that always sent a little kick of heat through Eames. He bit Eames’ lower lip and Eames pulled back with a little shudder.

“Come on,” Arthur said. “We’ve got a bed with slats in the headboard, let’s make use of it.”

Eames got on the bed, mute, lying back with his wrists above his head, still silent as he watched Arthur tie him, intent and quick. Eames took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm himself, but unable to stop the little frissons of anticipation that ran through him.

Arthur leaned in to kiss him with a small smile, planning and responsibility making him unsettlingly fond and tender. Eames decided he didn’t really mind.

“I’ll be touching you and tickling you,” Arthur said, still close, “and you won’t be able to stop me or get away.” He paused to let that sink in, watching Eames’ face. Eames felt his breathing become more ragged. “So I’d suggest a safeword,” Arthur continued, “so I’ll really know when you want me to stop, when it’s really too much.”

Eames nodded. “Lemon.”

“‘Lemon’?” Arthur repeated, curious. “Any reason?”

“Just the first word that came to mind.” Eames shrugged, and was reminded anew of how bound he was. He shifted, and swallowed.

“Do you want your boxers off?” Arthur asked, and Eames nodded. Arthur took them off, eyes resting on Eames’ very obvious and very eager erection. He met Eames’ gaze, biting back a grin. Eames huffed and looked away.

Arthur cleared his throat and sat astride Eames’ legs. He was lean, but he wasn’t lightweight, and he was quick. Arthur caught his calculating expression. “I can bind your ankles together,” he offered, and Eames nodded. Arthur got up again, got his pocketknife, cut a length of rope, and bound his ankles together.

“Blindfold?” Arthur offered. “Then you wouldn’t know when I was coming.”

Eames nodded, starting to get impatient now. “Please, Arthur, hurry up.”

“All right, all right.” Arthur got up and got one of his ties. He covered Eames’ eyes with it, and then there was Eames, wrists securely bound to the headboard, ankles tied together giving him very little proper leverage, blindfold on and Arthur once again astride him. By now he was leaking so much he could feel it cooling on his belly, sticky.

Arthur stroked his fingers down Eames’ sides, bringing up goosebumps and making Eames pull slightly on his bonds. He felt his nipples harden. Arthur stroked his fingers down the inside of Eames’ wrists, his elbows, his inner arms where the skin was softest and most sensitive, to his armpits. And then Arthur began tickling him in earnest.

It was unbearable. It was exquisite. Eames jumped like a live wire, squirming, but was only able to do so much. Arthur didn’t budge. Eames could not, could not stop the tickling. He was panting, huffing, trying to speak, making sounds that weren’t quite laughter.

Then Arthur stopped, and Eames was left gasping quietly, only to jump when Arthur’s fingers stroked over his abdomen, stomach, everywhere but his cock. He lightly scraped his nails over Eames’ skin, making those muscles jump again, and then he seemed to be shifting back, blowing air onto Eames’ cock and then pressing his thighs apart, bending his legs, drawing his fingers up the backs of Eames’ thighs from his arse to the backs of his knees, stroking down again with tickling touches along his inner thighs, then back up again to really attack the backs of his knees. Eames squirmed, straining, unable to avoid the relentless touches. The length of rope between his ankles only had so much slack. Then Arthur was moving back up, stroking the sides of his neck, sitting on his thighs once more. Eames shivered, trying to arch toward the touch, but Arthur moved on to his armpits again, touch featherlight and then relentless.

Eames writhed, he was a mass of goosebumps, he almost sobbed but swallowed it just in time. He was throbbing under Arthur, throbbing like mad, like a teenager.

“Can you come like this?” Arthur’s voice was rough, and hearing him say that, not being able to see him but knowing he was being seen, not being able to push him away, to escape his scrutiny or his relentless fingers, had Eames on the verge.

“Yes, god, yes, please, Arthur--”

He arched up, as much as he could, and Arthur sat on his cock, rubbing against him, cotton of his boxers soft on Eames’ skin. Arthur ground down on him and kept tickling him, and Eames came, totally gone with it, pulling at his bonds, gasping like he’d come up for air after nearly drowning.

He went slack, muscles shaking, hearing himself breathing “Oh, oh.”

Arthur cut his ropes, and guided his hands to the bed, and he lay there, limp, as Arthur cleaned him, and took off his blindfold. He was starting to shiver a bit, and Arthur got him under the covers, and went to get him a glass of water.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Eames began, after he’d had a long drink. Arthur scoffed. “Don’t apologize, Eames, god.”

“I wasn’t expecting to react that way,” Eames continued, as Arthur got under the covers with him.

“No shit,” Arthur said, grinning.

“And, well, you’ll never let me live it down if I don’t get you off,” Eames said, reaching into Arthur’s boxers.

Arthur was ridiculously hard and he kissed Eames eagerly as he was stroked, the trembling running through him a clear sign of how much he’d been affected by watching Eames. “Fuck, Eames, you were so,” he broke to breathe, and it was only a few more strokes until he came, pressing his hot face into Eames’ neck.

The flannel he’d used was on the duvet, and Eames cleaned him and then turned off the light, and Arthur collapsed to sleep on him.

As Eames stroked his fingers through the soft, short hair at Arthur’s nape, he fell asleep realizing he didn’t mind being weighed down so much after all.


End file.
